by C. L. Bevill
“I’ll flip it at your little noggin,” Miz Adelia returned. She sighed and returned to the pancakes. “Dang it all, I liked that spatula.”
“Now I know what to get you for Christmas,” Miz Demetrice said.
“It’s a long time ‘til Christmas,” Miz Adelia bemoaned.
“I will find the missing implement,” Brownie declared.
The phone rang.
Miz Adelia answered it, and Brownie blatantly listened to the one-sided conversation. “Oh hey, you must have your special hearing hat on,” she said. “Uh-huh. Pokerama this week?” She glanced at Miz Demetrice who shrugged. “It’s at the Oose-May-Odge-Lay Ursday-Thay.”
“I speak pig Latin eloquently. Also Klingon and a little Elfish,” Brownie said.
“Do the Boy Scouts have a badge for that?” Miz Demetrice asked.
“No, but I’ll suggest it.”
“I got a missing spatula here,” Miz Adelia was saying. “I guess I don’t really got it, but it’s missing all the same.” She paused to listen to the other person. “Well, I reckon I know a spatula ain’t high on the order of stolen things.” Pause. “Did I misplace it? Do I seem the type to misplace a cooking implement?” Miz Adelia paused to look at Brownie and added to the person on the phone, “Not that it’s an ‘implement.’ It’s a WMF Stainless Steel, Slotted Spatula from Williams-Sonoma. It’s dishwasher safe. Shore, that’s important.”
While she spoke, Miz Adelia stuck the portable phone between her face and her shoulder and neatly arranged pancakes on a plate. She gestured at Brownie, and he took it to mean that he should fetch the butter and syrup, as well as utensils. Brownie didn’t mind. He was hungry. Being a gumshoe was hard work.
“Oh?” Miz Adelia said. “I reckon I know you can’t polygraph the people who’ve been in this house. We had the Spring walk-through not two weeks ago, and those folk put their fingers on everything. One fella was molesting my best sauté pan.” Pause. “Well, he wasn’t molesting it. But I think he was thinking about sticking it down his pants.”
Miz Demetrice chuckled.
Brownie thought, And we’ll come back to that later.
“He’s lucky I dint take it away from him and brain his pea-sized head. I was as mad as a wet hen without a towel.”
“Klingon?” Miz Demetrice asked Brownie. “Really?”
“nuqDaq ‘oH puchpa ‘ e ’” Brownie said quickly.
“I’m somewhat lacking on my Klingon, dear,” Miz Demetrice prompted him.
“‘Where is the bathroom?’” Brownie translated. “Also there’s Hab SoS1I’ Quch!”
Miz Demetrice arched an eyebrow in query.
“‘Your mother has a smooth forehead!’” Brownie explained. “It’s actually a Klingon insult, but for humans I reckon that’s a good thing.” After he had put butter, syrup, and forks on the table, he went back for the pancakes. By that time, there were two plates, and Miz Adelia was working on the third, while still talking to the person on the phone.
“I know you cain’t find that fella and ask him did he take my spatula. I suppose I’ll get another one. But I’m mighty unhappy about that spatula,” Miz Adelia said. “Did you call just about the you-know-what on you-know-when? No?”
“Ah,” Brownie said as he sat down at the table with the pancakes in front of him. “A stack of wheats. Just what a growing gumshoe needs.”
“Come ahead,” Miz Adelia said to the person on the other end of the line. “I think we can handle two of them. They’ll probably keep each other busy. Don’t that chile like police work and all?”
“Police work?” Brownie’s head came up. “What’s all this then?”
“Syrup, dear?” Miz Demetrice enquired politely.
“Shore,” Miz Adelia said and then asked plaintively, “And you won’t dust for prints here?” She listened for a minute and said, “I know. I know. But I liked that spatula. It was made out of Cromargan.” Pause. “That’s an exceptional durable stainless steel. I like to cook, you know. Bitchin’ Kitchen is my very favorite. Next to Pawn Stars, but they don’t cook on that one.”
Brownie poured syrup on his pancakes. In fact, he made the pancakes drown in deep pools of maple goodness. When he glanced up, both of Miz Demetrice’s eyebrows had arched upward.
When Miz Adelia hung up, she said to Miz Demetrice, “That was Willodean.”
Brownie perked up. He liked Willodean Gray, the beautiful sheriff’s deputy. She had a gun, and she knew how to use it. However, she wouldn’t let him use it or even hold it.
“She’s got Janie for Spring Break and turns out there’s problems at work. Steve Simms broke his leg water skiing, and that other deputy’s got food poisoning something fierce. Doc Goodjoint said he ain’t never seen a fella throw up so much. So Willodean wonders if we might enjoy a bit of Janie’s company.” Miz Adelia flipped more pancakes and glowered at the cut-rate spatula she held.
“Janie?” Brownie said around a mouthful of pancakes. Janie was Willodean’s eight-year-old niece from Dallas. She liked all things police. Flatfoots and gumshoes often run up against each other. This should be interesting. She don’t act like a girl, and she also liked my stun gun.
“Chew and swallow before you choke,” Miz Demetrice advised gravely.
“Hey,” Janie said from the door of the kitchen. Willodean Gray stood behind the eight-year-old tucking her cell phone away in a pocket. They had clearly come in from the front, and Willodean had been calling from the deputy’s car while it was parked outside.
Willodean smiled crookedly.
Janie crossed her arms over her chest. “We didn’t see a single DB this time, Aunt Wills.”
“Oh, the day is early, dear,” Miz Demetrice advised thoughtfully. “DB does stand for dead body, I assume?”
“Wait until I get my hands on the person who took my spatula,” Miz Adelia exclaimed.
Chapter 3
Brownie and the Dizzying Dame,
and the Saucy Sheriff
Monday, April 2nd
Brownie observed the dame. She was a dame. Heck, she was the dame. She didn’t even compare to Suzy Derwinkle or Madison Blue. Actually, Suzy Derwinkle or Madison Blue didn’t compare to her. Most importantly she was related to cops. Lots of cops. Her mother was a cop. Her aunts were cops. Her grandmother was a cop. She hung out with cops. She knew all the cool criminal terms and slang. In the brief time Brownie had spent with Janie, he’d known she was special. But it was like Daddy had once advised, “Play hard to get, kid.”
“‘Sup,” Brownie said nonchalantly.
Janie directed him a look. She took in the fedora and checked out the suit. “What are you supposed to be? A gangster or a funeral director?”
Brownie sniffed. He tilted the fedora so that it was properly cocked. And she had a smart mouth. He didn’t really like girls, but Janie wasn’t exactly a girl. Well, she is a girl, but she acts like a boy. And she’s cute, too. Not that I’m noticing.
“I’m a gumshoe,” he announced proudly.
Janie looked blankly at him.
“A private dick, a shamus, a sleuth,” he explained.
“Oh,” Janie said. The single two-letter word was full of disregard and insouciance, but Brownie could tell she was really fascinated. There was a definite sparkle in her green eyes. His eyes were green, too but more of a hazel green than the spitfire in the girl’s.
Willodean profusely thanked Miz Adelia and Miz Demetrice and departed, all pert and official in her sheriff’s deputy uniform. She slipped out the way she had come before anyone could change their minds. “Be good, Janie!” she called as she went.
“There’s pancakes,” Miz Adelia announced, “and chocolate milk.”
“I could eat,” Janie offered.
Brownie patted the seat beside him. He looked her over. She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that said “I’m the BAD COP in Good Cop/Bad Cop.” He approved. Bad girls were what Ma warned him about, and the minute after his mother’s back was turned, his father said, “Ba
d girls are fun, boy.” Bad girl cops have to be even better than fun, right?
“Pancakes good,” he said.
Janie grimaced and sat beside him, “I’d rather have coffee.”
“Coffee stunts your growth,” Miz Adelia said immediately. “Chocolate milk or milk or water.”
“Chocolatemilk,” Janie said quickly, all in one word. Brownie stuffed his mouth with pancake and observed that the younger girl seemed to have sized up the housekeeper as a worthy opponent and one who was too tough to go against.
Miz Adelia whirred and buzzed with plates, spatula, pancake batter, a glass, and a half-gallon of chocolate milk.
“Do you have your stun gun?” Janie asked politely. “They are legal in the state of Texas, but you can’t use them against law enforcement officers.”
“No, they took it from me right away,” Brownie muttered with a quick glance at Miz Demetrice. “But I know where two dismantled muzzle loaders are.”
“Muzzle loaders,” Janie scoffed. “You need a Glock. More firepower. Takes down bad guys like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“Really?” Brownie asked. “I ain’t never fired a Glock. I fired Daddy’s rifle. Also, Papa Derryberry’s shotgun, and that done knocked me tushie over teakettle. Also a BB gun. And don’t tell no one, but we got to shoot Papa Derryberry’s cannon once. We put a hole the size of a bowling ball in the side of the barn. Of course, we did fire a bowling ball at the side of the barn. The cannon fires bowling balls, see?”
“I’ve never gotten to fire a cannon,” Janie said, impressed.
“No cannons around here,” Miz Demetrice said shortly.
“There are some on the lawn at city hall,” Brownie said. “Pretty sure they don’t work.”
“I’m pretty sure they poured cement down the bore,” Miz Demetrice said, “and if they didn’t, I’m going to do it right now.”
Miz Adelia served pancakes up to Miz Demetrice and Janie, and all talking ceased for awhile.
Brownie thought about the missing spatula. It wasn’t a great mystery. It wasn’t a murder victim or missing treasure or even something that most people would care about. But Miz Adelia seemed to be missing it terribly.
Janie suddenly discovered that Precious was under the table and de-evolved into baby language, “Who’s a wubbie-bubbie-precious doggie?”
Apparently Precious was a wubbie-bubbie-precious doggie because she sidled up to Janie and leaned against her legs. Miz Demetrice and Miz Adelia pretended not to notice when Janie slipped the dog a bite of pancake.
“Two of them,” Miz Adelia muttered and retreated to her stove. “It’s like a plague of locusts. Next we’ll have a flood.”
“Perhaps the library today,” Miz Demetrice suggested.
“Closed. Yesterday was Palm Sunday and Miz Clack is Catholic.” Miz Adelia shrugged. “Believe she’s gave up all sweets for Lent.”
“All sweets?” Brownie asked, aghast. “For forty whole flippin’ days? She must have the constitution of a rock. That’s what Papa Derryberry would say.”
“Miz Clack is a determined woman,” Miz Demetrice agreed. “But what shall we do with the two of you?”
“Auntie Wills said we could come to the station house later,” Janie said, “as long as Brownie agrees not to touch anything that fires bullets or any form thereof.”
“Burning powder,” Brownie laughed. “Chicago lightning. Drilling. Fogging. Using a heater. Giving someone lead poisoning or squirting metal. I like that last one. Sounds dis-gust-ing.”
“Perhaps Brownie could do with a nice tour of the jail,” Miz Demetrice said. “Tee Gearheart would love to show the children around, I’m certain.”
“The stir, hoosegow, the big house, under glass, the jug,” Brownie chanted cheerfully.
“Dearest, do you have a photographic memory?” Miz Demetrice asked.
Brownie was confused. “No, but I remember a lot when I like what I bin reading.”
* * *
The Pegram County Sheriff’s Department was mostly calm. Mary Lou Treadwell, who was receptionist, emergency-line operator, or consummate gossip, depending on the circumstances, waved happily at Miz Demetrice as the older woman brought the two children inside. Brownie didn’t know what a consummate gossip was because he hadn’t had a chance to look it up in his dictionary, but he would remember the words that Miz Demetrice had used. He thought it was someone who talked too much about stuff they shouldn’t talk about. But hey, he frowned, don’t that make me that, too?
“Hey, ya’ll,” Mary Lou said, “you just missed Deputy Gray. She went out to pick up Newt Durley again. Getting dried out this time dint last too long. He started drinking Nyquil because they wouldn’t sell him no more alcohol at the liquor place.”
“Eel juice, hooch, a jorum of skee, giggle shine,” Brownie said helpfully.
“I-uh-okay,” Mary Lou said. “Anyway, she said you should just go talk to Tee next door, and he’ll take them kids off your hands for a few hours.”
“You ain’t gonna let him lock us up?” Brownie asked suspiciously.
Miz Demetrice made a face, almost as if she had been thwarted. “Never crossed my mind,” she avowed.
A few minutes later, Tee was showing Brownie and Janie pictures of his infant son. Tee Gearheart was a big man and the jailor of the Pegram County Jail. Brownie had to tilt his head back to look up at him. But Daddy and Bubba are both taller, he thought. Neither one of them weighs that much.
Miz Demetrice snuck off. Brownie suspected that his great aunt was up to no-good. His mother had discussed Miz Demetrice’s illegal gambling ring with his father. Ma’s probably ticked because she dint get invited, Brownie thought. Although that weren’t Auntie D.’s fault. There were murderers about, and Auntie D. wasn’t thinking about gambling.
“I’ve been in a jail before,” Janie announced. “The loo lets me play in the cells all the time.”
“What’s a loo?”
“A lieutenant,” Janie said to Brownie, “a police lieutenant. He’s in charge of the station house in Dallas.”
“City jails,” Tee pooh-poohed. “Ain’t the same as our jails. We got a little room here. We kin put up to ten fellas in one cell.”
Janie nodded. “Nice to know if there’s extreme circumstances,” she said. “Riots and such. I approve.”
Tee glanced at Brownie. “Ain’t you spiffy?”
“He’s a gumshoe,” Janie said. Brownie detected a note of sarcasm in her voice. He bristled and said, “We got a mystery, too.”
Janie said, “What mystery?”
“Someone stole Miz Adelia’s best spatula,” Brownie filled in.
“Oh, that’s not good,” Tee said. “Miz Adelia is a fine cook. She can make biscuits that will make you cry like a baby.”
“That’s a good thing?” Janie asked.
“Ifin it’s so good and so tasty you cry,” Tee said, “then it is a good thing.”
“We’ll ask for biscuits,” Brownie said. “Do you know anything about missing spatulas, Mr. Gearheart?”
“Call me Tee,” Tee said. “I do not know anything about missing spatulas. Did Miz Adelia misplace it?”
“Have you seen anyone suspicious recently?” Janie asked seriously. Brownie blinked. He should have said that. Regardless, Janie was getting right with the program. She might make an acceptable partner after all but only if she didn’t solve the mystery first.
“Suspicious?” Tee repeated. “There’s that fella from Dogley Mental Institute, the one who wears the purple get-up and prances around singing out ‘Dah-da-DAH!’”
“The Purple Singapore Sling,” Janie confirmed. “He’s a superhero. He likes dogs and isn’t afraid of master criminals. He’s okay.”
“I don’t know about that,” Tee said. “He told me he was wearing purple underwear that gives him special powers.” The large man looked around to see if anyone else was listening. “Women’s underwear.”
“It’s because he can’t get men’s underwear in purpl
e,” Janie said gravely. “Anyone else suspicious?”
Tee straightened and thought about it. He had to stop to scratch the top of his head. “Foot Johnson was singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’ but he said it was because he cain’t get it out of his head. He was doing all the voices in it, high and low.”
Janie considered that. Her cute little face screwed up in concentration. Brownie thought about it. Foot Johnson was the janitor of the county buildings. Other than having the description of a bodily part for his first name, he seemed fairly benign.
Brownie straightway added Foot Johnson to his suspect list. Fairly benign is how they talk about serial killers, he thought. “When I lived next door to him, he was a right nice fella. Took out his garbage once a week, and I dint smell nothing dead no how.” Jack the Ripper. Benign. Vlad the Impaler. Benign. George W. Bush. Really benign.
“Ruby Mercer mentioned to Poppiann that Bill Clinton is acting up lately,” Tee said.
“Ruby Mercer is…?” Janie prompted.
“Just a lady who lives in town. She lives with her sister, that’s Alice, by the way. Them gals are retired and don’t do much ‘cepting meet with the Pegramville Women’s Club on Thursday nights. So does Poppiann when I’m free to sit with Junior.” Tee glanced down at the photos in his hand. He put them away with a smile. “Not that I mind sitting with Junior. Boy’s already walking. He’s gonna be an athlete, I swear.”
“Bill Clinton,” Jane prompted. “Acting up?”
“Oh, Bill Clinton is Ruby and Alice’s dog. They love that dog like the earth loves the rain. Take him to be groomed once a month. Paint his claws different colors, and he’s a boy dog. Must hurt his feelings something fierce.”
“Did the Mercer sisters say why Bill Clinton was acting up?” Janie asked, and Brownie could almost see the police uniform on her.
“No. I don’t reckon they knew. Fella’s just acting all riled up and all. Ruby done said that dog was smiling like a goat in a briar patch.”
Janie stared at Tee. “A goat in a briar patch? Is that good or bad?”
“Good. I think,” Brownie interjected, feeling somewhat left out in the detecting aspect.
